Should my heart be grieved or pined 'Cause I see a woman kind? Or a well-disposed nature Joined with a lovely creature? Be she meeker, kinder than Turtle-dove or pelican: If she be not so to me, What care I how kind she be. Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love? Or, her well-deserving known, Make me quite forget mine own? Be she with that goodness blest Which may gain her name of best If she be not such to me, What care I how good she be. 'Cause her fortune seems too high, Shall I play the fool and die? Those that bear a noble mind, Where they want or riches find, Think what with them they would do That without them dare to woo. And unless that mind I see, What care I though great she be. Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair; If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve. If she slight me, when I woo, I can scorn, and let her go. For, if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be. "Amarillis I Did Woo" Amarillis I did woo, And I courted Phillis too; Daphne, for her love, I chose; Cloris, for that damask rose In her cheek, I held as dear; Yea, a thousand liked well near. And, in love with all together, Feared the enjoying either; 'Cause to be of one possest, Barred the hope of all the rest. Sonnet: On A Stolen Kiss Now gentle sleep hath closed up those eyes, Which waking kept my boldest thoughts in awe, And free access unto that sweet lip lies From whence I long the rosy breath to draw. Methinks no wrong it were if I should steal, From those two melting rubies, one poor kiss. None sees the theft that would the thief reveal, Nor rob I her of aught which she can miss. Nay, should I twenty kisses take away, There would be little sign I had done so. Why then should I this robbery delay? Oh, she may wake, and therewith angry grow. Well, if she do, I'll back restore that one, And twenty hundred thousand more for loan. A Christmas Carol So now is come our joyful feast, Let every man be jolly; Each room with ivy leaves is drest, And every post with holly. Though some churls at our mirth repine, Round your foreheads garlands twine, Drown sorrow in a cup of wine, And let us all be merry. Now all our neighbours' chimnies smoke, And Christmas blocks are burning; Their ovens they with baked meats choke, And all their spits are turning. Without the door let sorrow lie, And if for cold it hap to die, We'll bury it in a Christmas pie; And evermore be merry. Now every lad is wondrous trim, And no man minds his labour; Our lasses have provided them A bagpipe and a tabour. Young men and maids, and girls and boys Give life to one another's joys; And you anon shall by their noise Perceive that they are merry.